Westmoreland Corker

Thoughts turn to my favoured long playing records of 2009 and a brace of splendid recent beauties that hail, remarkably, from the shores of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. American recordings have come to dominate my turntables an’ devices so I’m chuffed to bits for the two acts I’m about to laud. Well done.

Wild Beasts hail from Kendal within the northern landscapes. They are neither beasts nor wild (I hope) but they do produce shimmering pop perfection that sends shivers down spines. Their recording is named Two Dancers. This is self-consciously pompous music (no bad thing), fusing enigmatic and swaggering fancy-compositions with the electrifying falsetto of no-shrinking-violet lead vocalist Hayden Thorpe. The closest comparison to Thorpe’s vocal antics that I can proffer is the high-pitched wonderment of the late, great Billy Mackenzie o’ The Associates; plenty of the glamour, ambition and insouciance of these Wild Beast songs reflect merrily the work of that fine Scottish combo of yore. These are songs to shoegaze to, songs to sway to, songs to smile at and with. It’s a splendidly unusual album. Presently I’m enjoying every second.

Slightly more traditional aural fare comes from a group who wowed me at the Green Man Festival and, indeed, the long player that I lovingly spin so often was purchased at said event. The Leisure Society’s The Sleeper is a sweeping and elegiac, er, sweep of acoustic elegance aided and abetted by sensuous string sensations and a wee bit of flute action. Soaring melodies and splendid orchestrations dominate these slightly bucolic and autumnal tracks that one could lazily deem ‘chamber pop’. This is simply a very pretty album packed with gorgeous and rather literate songs. I recommend.

Oh, but my blessings get so blurred

Pre-season rugby union friendlies remain strange beasts. It is all too easy to swoop upon a smashing victory, glow in optimistic fervour for a week, earnestly predict a campaign to rate among the greatest, only to be blown away a week later by an unfancied outfit. The opposite can occur also. Wailing and gnashing of teeth can accompany the referee’s shrill blast for no-side after a disappointing defeat only for the team to turn things round munificently in the first match that counts. I hope that this will be the case after Gloucester’s defeat to a lively Ospreys fifteen at Kingsholm yesterday. This punter enjoyed the experience though. The first half was a fairly turgid ‘appening enriched by a latish Charlie Sharples try. Not a lot clicked for the home team although Dave Attwood looked a splendid acquisition. The former Bristol inhabitant-o’-the-engine-room took line-out ball with insouciant ease but, importantly, galloped around the paddock with uncompromising zeal and used his undeniable bulk to sizeable effect. I rate him. The second half contained more shape and the cherry and whites attacked with a touch more creativity and, although gifting the visitors a late try and a (possibly) deserved win, proffered an expectant throng a few treats and hints of encouraging times to come. I’m most pleased with our signing from the forgotten wastelands of Nottingham, centre Tim Molenaar, who demonstrated more aggression, verve, energy, thrust and threat in twenty minutes than his illustrious colleague Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall managed in sixty. This fellow could prove a super signing; I can see his rasping, no-nonsense approach becoming a thorn in the side of unsuspecting opposition midfields. Young Freddie Burns looked composed, elegant and creative during his tenure at full back and, when chasing the game with seconds to go, appeared to be full of ideas and wit and guile. Nicky Robinson seemed assured at ten; some of his kicking for touch was marvellous. Most of the other players were satisfactory or better but the forwards lacked a hint of grunt at times and I expected more of the Fijian flyer, Qera, who contributed little and seems a shadow of the explosive force who galloped into our imaginations with such vigour a year and a half ago. Effectively, though, more positives emerged from yesterday’s battle than negatives and if the result was disappointing, it was merry to stand with comrades after a month or three away, and appreciate wry banter and fun. I enjoyed the event.

Turf Wars

It was touch and go this year but I’m giving that lot over in Kingsholm Village another chance. I purchased my 23rd (I think) season ticket an hour ago; this product permits me entry to the home football (rugby union code, verily) matches contested by the Gloucester club of Gloucester this term and I look forward to using it wisely. Last season left a bitter taste in this mouth – as growled elsewhere – but I’m hoping the canny and charismatic coaching Celt, Brian Redpath can instil some pride in the ‘istoric shirt and allow the players to display their expressionistic sides more often. As ever, I look forward to witnessing the prowess of new players. Young Dave Attwood of Bristol, a lock forward, is my tip to make an unexpected impact on the first team this season. From what I have read, he’s the sort of hungry, talented athlete we require at the noble club. No superstars here please. The classy Nicky Robinson should run things with erudition and a wry wit from the outside half berth; the side kept faith with the skilled but ultimately unsatisfactory Lamb for too long and it’ll merry to witness a proven playmaker at work. And could young Henry Trinder’s star rise this year? Shrewder judges than me consider him to possess similar magical skills to the young prince, Simpson-Daniel. We shall see. I think Gloucester will do well this year, better than many guides and gurus have predicted. Leicester appear to be the leading club still but my local outfit sits defiantly amid several that could challenge for honours with a fair wind and a coquettish wink from Lady Luck. I salute the Gloucester players. Good luck, fellows. Don't let me down again.

Put on your headphones before you explode

My brief sojourn to our nation’s capital has drawn to a close. The main purpose of the visit was to attend Wilco’s concert at Limehouse’s exotic and classy Troxy. Essentially, the combo played a similar albeit a touch longer set to the one proffered to the Green Man hordes. It was nice to be seated. The admirable D (who took the charming top photo on his mobile telephone) had procured balcony seats and the view of Tweedy (celebrating his birthday wi’ fervour) and his able cohorts was merry and clear. Having eulogised this group during my last but one posting it would prove a tad dull to repeat my acknowledgements. My favourite Wilco song, Jesus Etc. sounded glorious and I do appreciate the newer material. No hint of sullenness could be detected upon my exultant comrade D’s face but I know he was crying out for an Ashes of American Flags. Maybe next time. I didn’t buy a hat afterwards.

Earlier that day (Tuesday) I trotted on my Jack Jones (as the Cockneys bark rather gracelessly on the city’s streets) to a new place for me, the Imperial War Museum. I found this a remarkable building, full of fascinating exhibits and tremendously moving subjects. Importantly, war didn’t seem to be glorified in the museum’s rooms but merely reported with intelligence, sensitivity and insight. The holocaust exhibition was especially poignant and told the history of this gruesome period simply and with an arresting clarity. I enjoyed the look at the Cold War and the wealth of material examining the two World Wars was overwhelming. I found the personal tales from the Home Front really touching. This is a superb museum and I recommend it.

It took me years to write, will you take a look?

I salute the Green Man Festival’s literature tent. I can’t recall if there was such a marquee on either of my previous visits to this event, possibly because I was spending most of my time shivering and slopping through mud while bearing a dark demeanour of despair and disillusionment. This time I patronised the tent with energy. The hour and a half spent listening to the remarkable Joe Boyd speak of his varied 1960s encounters with the Dylans, Drakes and Thompsons. The (folk-) rock Zelig talked with the warmth and passion of a fan and it was, well, chilling to reflect that standing before us was the fellow who sat alone with a nervous Nicholas “Nick” Drake and listened to the troubled troubadour play his early songs. The event was extra special because the wonderful Robin Hitchcock interspersed the narrative by performing key songs from Boyd’s career as a producer and record company man. It was enchanting and worth the admission fee alone. The hour with Jah Wobble was fabulous too. The former PIL bassist was honest and humorous and pored over a intriguing life (punk, violence, drug addiction and tube train driving) with an effervescent East End, er, effervescence. I wanted to buy his book but it sold out. Christmas maybe. Also caught in this tent were Keith Allen (hugely entertaining), Will Hodgkinson (very earnest) and David Thomas of Pere Ubu (demonic).

Here are some captions to the above pictures. They look small but a click works wonders. They then grow. :

1. Left to right - Robin Hitchcock, Joe Boyd, a pillar

2. Jah Wobble talking about stuff

I'm outta here. London's swanky streets beckon. The elegant D waits for me there. We join the capital's hepcats tonight for a Wilco concert party. I can't wait to see this combo again. I might have my hair cut first.

Refreshed

No welcoming committees or reverential banners lined the ‘istoric city streets of Gloucester but A and I arrived back from the Green Man Festival in the early hours of this morning. It was a low key return witnessed only by the furtive creatures of the shadows. The gentle and kindly fellow was a late replacement for all three Cole females; illness had scuppered their plans to accompany me.

Where to begin? Well, I have plenty to report and I may have to write a bit today and bit more on the morrow. I am wan and weary but keen to post.

I think I can speak for my comrade in proclaiming Green Man 2009 as one of the finest festival experiences ever. After a brace of disheartening wash-outs I was hoping only for fine weather and was ready to salute anything else as a pleasing bonus. Merrily, the sun shone and the site remained dry and there were bonuses galore. The whole vibe of the place was majestic. More kindred spirits thronged the arenas and alleyways than one could shake a Word Magazine subscription form at and the overwhelming friendliness of all Green Manners led to some tremendous chummy chats and the making of some pleasing new pals. Funnily enough, the fifth Ashes Test bonded many a hipster. With thrilling events at the Oval distracting plenty of cats, trannies were pressed to ears and conversations about cricketing matters were manifold. Comradeships galore were nurtured over debates over whether one or two spinners were needed and who should comprise the home side’s middle order. It was so gloriously English and rather beautiful and when the peerless urn was finally reclaimed by a brave eleven, the euphoria proved tangible.

With one or two exceptions (the moribund and uninspiring Roky Erickson and the disappointingly sterile Animal Collective), the music was consistently bewitching, challenging and – important word this – entertaining. “Highlights?” you ask with just a hint of impatience, and rightly so. For me, the most tremendous hour and a half was provided by a sensational Wilco weaving warmth, wisdom and wistful wonder underpinned by charming and exquisite musical skills. This is a remarkable beat combo able to proffer unusual and unconventional soundscapes within fairly traditional country rock terms of reference. I’d bestow ‘essential’ status upon the gnarled Jeff Tweedy and his adroit players. I commend Wilco’s compelling and wondrous numbers to all hepcats. They were remarkable last evening.

If Tweedy (on behalf of the whole band) bounds proudly onto the Cole podium to claim a gold medal for a mesmerising set, who receives the other prizes? Earnest Bon Iver would collect a worthy silver for a stunning quiet-is-the-new-loud performance. Justin Vernon’s renditions of his fragile and reflective masterpieces (against the odds, really, considering how quiet and introspective his songs are) managed to subtly captivate a huge Saturday night crowd with an understated swagger and poise. Bagging a bronze would be the Phantom Band who didn’t exactly exude rock star cool but banged out belter after belter to a remarkably receptive and animated crowd. This affable Scottish collective conjure up magical and textured gems, mixing krautrock sturm und drang wi’ captivating rock riddims. They were fabulous and graced the main stage like old troopers.

Plenty of other acts caught the eye and ear. Grizzly Bear were tremendous value; they harmonised sumptuously and tendered multi-layered brilliance. British Sea Power were as energetic and quirky as ever. Beach House’s studied sonic sensitivities soared smoothly. And I loved the Leisure Society’s affable, raffish allure; this group’s ultra-melodic treasures had me sprinting towards the Rough Trade record store soon after they had finished in order to purchase their latest long player. Heck, it was (almost, almost) all splendid.

I'll write more soon. Glance confidently above for pictures. They, as ever, grow cleverly if clicked. I provide captions:

1. Your host in relaxed mode near the Green Man Cafe stage. All the gentlefolk on the table were charming (even the Cardiff Blues rugby fan sat opposite me) and were desperate for cricket knowledge. England were one wicket away from scooping the Ashes when this photo was taken.

2. A

3. Wilco...Wilco...Wilco

There is a view that reaches far where we see the universe; I see the fire, I see the end

I took my girls to Gloucester Cathedral this afternoon for a tour of the tall tower. We climbed 269 narrow steps going up and 269 coming down again but ‘twas worth it. On the way up our guide showed us the belfry and we were only a yard or two from the twelve cathedral bells as they struck to announce the third hour post meridian. Eventually we emerged at the very highest point of the historic building and appreciated splendid views. On a clear day one is supposed to be able to see for forty miles and it was bright and sunny today so it was a tremendous vista. Naturally most landmarks were easy to spot although we ambitiously tried to find our house (from which we can see the cathedral) but were thwarted. It is a fine way to spend an hour or so and I recommend the whole tower tour scene. The Whispering Gallery at Gloucester Cathedral is pleasing too.

I took the above photographs earlier. As ever, clicking on the pictures will make them grow and become mighty. Here are captions looking from top to bottom.

1. A kestrel’s view of the nave

2. The famed rugby union stadium at Kingsholm. And a UFO.

3. The top

4. A view from below

Untitled

I supped a few ales with S last evening in the centre of the metropolis that gentlefolk and less-than-gentlefolk, in hushed and deferential tones, call ‘Gloucester’. Our first port of call was a new inn for this punter. Robert Raikes’s House has been done up rather tastefully and, I observe, at no little expense. The courtyard at the back is rather charming and I’m pleased that my city boasts such an elegant area in which to sit and imbibe. I salute this hostelry. In my youth, it was known as the Golden Cross, and one of the first places I drank in as an earnest and wry sixth form student. The Cross was connected to my favourite pub, the now defunct Malt ‘n’ Hops, via a miniature yard and the adolescent popinjays and dandies could spend Saturday night parading flamboyantly between both inns. The Golden Cross attracted a slightly rougher crowd; the Hops exuded cool. If I am correct, the Robert Raikes’s House courtyard is geographically where the Malt ‘n’ Hops used to stand. Memories.

Our second and final destination also has a place in my past. The Café Rene was, when I were a juvenile, the Inner Court Wine Bar, a vaguely underused venue for drinking but characterful and interesting nonetheless. I don’t dislike the Rene but I am not as fond as I used to be of this place. The beer was a touch below par last night and, as S and I agreed, this isn’t as remarkable a drinking den as it likes to think it is. I ended the evening pouring a Red Stripe or two down my ageing neck which my tender head regrets a day later. It had proved a pleasant session though.

Pumped up full of vitamins on account of all the seriousness

I’ve read well this summer and have sucked the marrow from a wide range of tomes from contemporary fodder to famed humorous charmer to gritty detective, er, grit to evergreen children’s classic. I should mention, in more detail, a brace of sporting volumes that have brought particular pleasure.

Norman Mailer’s The Fight is ostensibly an account of the Zaire-hosted 1974 Muhammad Ali - George Foreman heavyweight boxing contest but proffers the reader so much more. The book is split into two parts. The Dead Are Dying Of Thirst examines the build-up to the bout, the training, the sparring, the political machinations of the media and, most interesting of all, the social structure of a newish nation; N’Golo is a touch shorter but utterly compelling and comprises an almost blow-by-blow account of the so-called Rumble in the Jungle (an expression Mailer uses once or twice only). Utilising unprecedented access to both pugilists, the writer paints such persuasive portraits of the egotistic yet complex Ali and the more sensitive and brooding Foreman that when the two clash under the Kinshasa stars one is able to consider a confrontation between two fascinating, well, humans as well as two primed athletes. The Fight is first rate journalism, unusually phrased at times (Mailer often refers to himself in the third person) and is splendidly informative as well as exquisitely thrilling (despite one knowing the result) during the rounds of the fight itself. Recommended.

Mike Burton’s Never Stay Down is possibly my favourite sports book ever and a must for any supporter of the famed Gloucester rugby side. I confess the sentimentalist in me is blinking away the tears from the first page where gnarled Kingsholm legend Digger Morris towers over the teenaged Burton, crocked and supine, during a physical junior fixture and offers the uncompromising advice that lends the book its title and underpins the hero’s at times controversial approach to the sport. I am with my fabled comrade D, the pride o’ Newent, in holding great affection for the chapter entitled We The Undersigned; The Gloucester Story which offers an bewitching insight into the club’s amateur era of the 1960s and 1970s when just pulling on the cherry and white shirt meant the world to its players and the only tangible rewards were the support of a proud city and the comradeship of true friends. Elsewhere Burton earnestly contemplates his careers with England and the Lions and considers, ruefully at times, his abrasive and notorious style of play. Burton never took a backwards step, never avoided confrontation, never – after the Digger’s rugged intervention - stayed down. The chapters bearing the titles Off! Off! and Props and Punchers are each split into parts one and two such is the wealth of fisticuff-based anecdotal splendour the author (aided and abetted by the peerless Stephen Jones) provides for the grateful reader. I just missed seeing Burton play (he retired in the spring of 1978, a matter of months before I entered the glorious stadium for the first time) but, in a way, Never Stay Down represents my truest feelings for the club that I admire for its recent ability to flourish in a commercial and professional era but love for the old-fashioned, raw, hard-nosed ethos that existed before anyone standing in the popular side had heard of salary caps or experimental law variations. This is a superb book.

It sounds like a pocketful of rain

Despite a couple of years when the appalling weather broke the hearts of heppest hepcats, I shall be returning to the Green Man Festival later this month. The sun must surely shine this time. Tickets were purchased via an online ticket agency last evening. My erstwhile comrade S will not be accompanying me on this occasion but Mrs Cole and the two female Cole offspring shall be joining me in Brecon. My record of catching the Sunday night headliners has been frankly poor (I had returned to my Gloucestershire abode, sodden and melancholic before both Stephen Malkmus in ’07 and Pentangle in ’08 had taken to the stage) but I am determined to witness the remarkable Wilco this time round. It still rankles that I missed The National last year too. I sense I may be trotting to the children’s field a fair bit this year but I am certainly keen to salute British Sea Power and Animal Collective on the Friday evening ‘n’ The Phantom Band, Grizzly Bear and Bon Iver on the Saturday. As ever, there are plenty of acts I’ve kind of heard of and shall endeavour to research and revise as much as possible before setting out. There seems to be more comedy and literature stuff to enjoy this time around. I’m keen to catch writer Jon Savage, the fellow behind the finest tome on the subject of punk rock, England’s Dreaming and I note that the veteran folk-rock hipster and mastermind Joe Boyd is appearing too. I’m looking forward to the event but shall be hoping for dry meteorological conditions.

To celebrate the forthcoming festival I am happy to offer some previously unpublished photographs taken two years ago. From top to bottom the pictures are entitled 'General Crowd Scene', 'Another General Crowd Scene' and 'Ritz Crackers and Wellies: A Maudlin Tent Interior'.

Counting miles before we set

It’s always good to be home. The Coles have been engaged in holiday frolics for almost a fortnight. Holland was the destination, specifically a Keycamp (“This is the life!”) site in the pleasing coastal town of Wassenaar. There were swimming pools, an amusement park and numerous other distractions. We hired Dutch bicycles that require one to peddle backwards in order to brake and, in convoy formation, used said two-wheeled devices to propel ourselves to the nearby beach at pleasant Katwijk. We also spent a day in Amsterdam, another in Dan Haag (it’ll be nice when it’s finished) and, luckily, visited Delft on the day of the wondrous floating flower parade in which the canal banks of this quaint town were packed for a carnival style procession of small boats bedecked in all manner of vegetation. Lively characters – many in clogs – danced and sang without a hint of self-consciousness amid the tulips and other vegetable matter. It was rather lovely. Here is a fairly typical craft. Well, the time whizzed by – ever a good sign – but it is reassuring to be back in Merrie Gloucester and in one’s own bedchamber.